


every ride on a fork tongue (this twine of trust, unspun)

by possessedradios (orphan_account)



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Multi, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fic, Various Topics/Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 05:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14254026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: A collection of short fics written for tumblr prompts. Various characters / pairings - more info and warnings (where necessary) in the chapter notes!





	1. Kepler & Maxwell - "Neither one of us is drunk enough for this conversation"

**Author's Note:**

> I went through my fic tag on tumblr and decided that I really like some of those, so I decided to collect them here. (I know that collections can be Annoying, but I don't wanna spam the w359 tag, dhfsakd. I'll do my best to put into the chapter titles what the respective fics are about!)
> 
> Collection title is taken from Off The Map by Alkaline Trio!  
>  _(I loosen my lips and the truth slips out_  
>  _Every ride on a fork tongue_  
>  _This twine of trust is unspun_  
>  _(...)_  
>  _See I'm so far off the map the sun is shining_  
>  _While it's raining and I'm draped in silver lining)_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon prompt for Maxwell and Kepler - "Neither one of us is drunk enough for this conversation."

The knife slides through the tomato with casual ease that reminds you of the way a good blade cuts through a throat, if you hold it just right. It’s satisfying to experience. Both. 

Maxwell is standing next to you, quietly. Her eyes follow your every movement, and she seems to be perfectly content with being an observer. It’s different from Jacobi – he’s like a kid whenever he watches you cook – “Why are you doing this”, “How do you know that’s enough flour”, “Is this supposed to be so liquid-y”. You think you prefer Maxwell’s silent confidence in your cooking skills. 

She steps closer after a few more moments, swipes one of the slices off the cutting board and puts in in her mouth. You look at her out of the corner of your eye, and she grins, and you say nothing, instead you think, a person as rational and fixated on logic as her shouldn’t be so comfortable around you while you’re holding a knife. 

“I’m a little jealous,” she says later, after you’ve set the timer on the oven, while you’re cleaning the knife, and it sounds hesitant, cautious almost. She’s not used to talking to you without Jacobi around. Certainly not about personal matters. One of the reasons you’ve invited her today. 

“You’re what?” you say, and turn to look at her. You know where this is going, you’re sure, but you’ll have her say it out loud anyway, simply because with Maxwell, you can never be certain whether she’s actually addressing a topic as a whole, or just a tiny portion of it. 

She frowns. “You heard me,” she says. “I’m jealous. … Jealousy is a _feeling_ , Major. That’s some sort of emotional reaction _normal persons_ experience every now and then.” 

You chuckle and rest your hand against her back to gently guide her a few steps to the left so you can stow away the knife. 

“What’s so funny?” she asks and looks almost confused for a second when you take your hand off her again, as if she’s expected you to leave it there. You make a mental note of that. 

You smile at her. “What’s so funny, mmhm. … You? Calling yourself a _normal person_?” Her, calling herself a person, really. 

She rolls her eyes. “Jesus, sorry for actually trying to make conversation and telling you something about myself. You always complain because I don’t, so I thought-” 

“I don’t complain. I make observations.” 

She sighs and rolls her eyes again 

“Why are you jealous?” 

Maxwell bites her lower lip and hesitates again, and you suspect she probably didn’t expect you to elaborate on the topic anymore. In the end, she exhales slowly, leans against the counter and crosses her arms in front of her body. “I haven’t really– He’s not around as much anymore, since he’s been seeing Klein. I mean, I’m happy for him, of course, but… “ She shrugs. “It’s weird? That he’d rather be somewhere else than together with me.” 

You incline your head. “Understandable,” you say. 

She blinks. “… Really? You– understand?” 

“Oh, no.” You smile at her. “But it’s comprehensible on a rational level.” You ignore the fact that she looks vaguely disappointed and continue. “However, I think the distance will do you good. I can’t say I appreciate your insistence on your … _very_ close friendship. It’s hardly professional.” That’s not true – in reality, you don’t care much either way, and until now it’s only proven beneficial, really, that they get along so well. But you’re interested in her reaction – you rarely spend time with her alone – where Jacobi is an open book by now, she’s still somewhat a mystery. You’ve always liked mysteries, but you like to untangle and solve them even more. 

She stares at you, unblinking, and then she raises her arms and gestures around your kitchen. “Really?” she says. “I mean, _really_ , Major Kepler?” 

“Please,” you say. “What _we_ share here is not a friendship. Don’t tell me you actually think that.” You turn your back on her, open one of the cupboards and take out two plates, smiling again, unbeknownst to her this time. 

Another moment of silence, and then she snorts. “No. No, I don’t think that. I don’t _want_ that. Contrary to what you might believe, I do have some small amount of self-respect left.” 

You still and turn around to face her again, lock eyes with her – you know she hates it, which is funny, because _normal persons_ have no problem with it. “Mmhm. I see.” 

She shrugs. “And … still. What we _share here_ isn’t exactly what I’d call professional, either. No matter whether Jacobi’s here or not. It’s…” She hesitates and looks away, looks down at the counter. “We’re … close.” She grips the sleeve of her hoodie with one hand. “Too close. The three of us, I mean. It’s weird, I think. We both know I’m no expert when it comes to social customs, but I don’t think that’s how … stuff like this is supposed to work. I think about this a lot. About– three people sharing hotel room beds and you inviting us for dinner and putting your arms around us and– everything. And the weirdest thing is that I don’t wanna change it even though it feels wr– weird.” She shrugs again. “I think you know that. Jacobi knows, too. We just never talk about it.” She sighs, then frowns at the counter. “ _Should_ we talk about this? Am I right – are you aware of how … fucked up this all is?” 

The atmosphere has shifted slightly, an almost imperceptible change of the overall _mood_ , like the evening sky growing gradually darker. You can’t quite place what caused it, but you don’t like it; this is not how you had planned for this to go. You hadn’t anticipated her to speak of this at all; certainly haven’t anticipated her to be so open in front of you, and you alone.

You don’t think about your next words, and maybe, you realize, you’re close _(“too close”)_ to crossing a line; one of the borders you’ve set for yourself sometime while working with Jacobi and Maxwell. “Maxwell, I assure you – neither one of us is drunk enough for this conversation. So let’s not have it.” 

It’s only now that she looks up from the counter, returning your look. She seems … amused, suddenly. “ _Wow_ , sir. You know what? I think you’re just as fucked up as Jacobi and I are.” 

“Maxwell,” you say. You keep your voice very even, friendly. “You want to stop _right there._ Now.” 

A second passes, two. Maxwell nods. “Okay,” she says and lets it go, just like that, because you know she likes testing out boundaries, but you also know she’ll accept the ones you’ll set without second thought; this is why you appreciate her on your team, and you wait together for the food to be ready, and then you eat and she reluctantly starts talking about her work, and you listen even though you don’t understand a word, and later, after Jacobi shows up unannounced even though he was supposed to be with Klein the whole evening, expression clearly portraying ‘Don’t ask, I don’t want to talk about it’, you sit down on the couch and watch a movie, you seated in the middle, and you put an arm around each of them, and they gradually relax into the touch, until they’re both leaned against your sides.


	2. SI 5 - "I've always been honest with you."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by thought - the sentence "I've always been honest with you" for the SI 5. Writing this killed me a little, but it's one of my own fav things, I think.
> 
> content notes: blood; dissociation; violence mention

The drive back to the motel is dead silent, partially because the radio reception is really shitty around here, partially because they all kinda just almost died, if you want to be dramatic about it, and Maxwell wonders how they’ll get the mess out of the backseat long before she worries about Jacobi walking through the shitty lobby of a shitty establishment without anyone noticing that he’s full of blood that isn’t his. The latter is easier than most might think, anyway – they’ve been through the motions before. One, Jacobi leaves his coat in the car, two, Kepler wordlessly hands him his own, three, Jacobi shoves his hands deep into the pockets. There we go.

Back inside their room, Maxwell grabs Jacobi’s hand (sticky and gross) and pulls him into the bathroom, shutting the door in front of Kepler’s face when he wants to follow. 

Jacobi doesn’t protest as she guides him to the sink. He lets her peel off Kepler’s coat, and she realizes that he’s still holding the switchblade knife in his right hand, knuckles white. “Jacobi,” she says, grabbing his wrist, “give me that,” then tries again after a few seconds, calling him ‘Daniel’ this time. It takes him another good half minute to react, to finally lift his head and look at her, or through her, but he slightly easens his grip, and Maxwell manages to take the knife from him. 

They both stand there silently then, staring at Jacobi’s hands, at the water running over it and disappearing down the drain and splattering against the ceramic; droplets of red against white; the world’s most morbid modern painting. 

Maxwell sighs silently, looks at Jacobi, searches his face for any indication of an emotion, but there’s nothing. His eyes are fixated on his hands and his expression is blank. She knows this, but it’s jarring every time, the way he switches from furious anger (shoving Kepler aside while walking back to the car, even yelling at him, today) to … well, _this_ , within the span of just half an hour or so. She’s never killed anyone with a knife, but she thinks it must be very intimate if it makes Jacobi react like that even when it happens for the fourth time. She then thinks that ‘intimate’ probably isn’t the word she should think of when musing about murder, no matter the circumstances. 

She cautiously places a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly. “Hey,” she says, “Daniel? You there?” 

Nothing, and she waits for another two or three minutes before doing it again. This time he blinks slowly and tears his eyes away from his hands to look at her instead, and their little fucked up routine begins. 

“I– Wha–” 

“Motel room, we’re back, everyone’s okay.” 

“Right. I– Yeah. Yeah, sorry, I was–” 

Maxwell cuts him off with a quick nod. “It’s alright”, she says lightly. 

She knows it probably isn’t, but she’d never dare addressing the matter, because _dissociation_ sounds just a tiny bit too much like _Oh, so it DOES bother you that you qualify as a mass murderer by now, Mr. Jacobi? How disappointing_. 

Jacobi sighs and looks down at his hands – clean again –, then turns off the water. “This was–” 

“Yeah. … Yeah.” 

Jacobi sits down on the closed toilet lid, and after a moment, Maxwell takes a seat on the floor. Another second later, the door opens, and Kepler steps in. Probably heard that they were talking, Maxwell thinks. 

“Don’t ever,” he says while closing the door, without looking at either of them, “talk to me again like you did back there, Jacobi.” It sounds almost casual, but Maxwell exchanges one single look with Jacobi and knows that they’re both very much aware that Kepler’s serious about this. 

“… I won’t apologize,” Jacobi says quietly. 

“I don’t care, because I didn’t ask you to. I simply told you to never. Speak to me. Like this again. Understood?” 

Silence stretches on for a few seconds, growing heavier with each passing one, and then Kepler finally turns his head to look at him, and Jacobi immediately gives in, answers through gritted teeth, “Yes, sir.” His voice is full of exhaustion and crudely suppressed defiance. 

“Good. _Good._ ” 

Maxwell leans her head back against the wall and closes her eyes, sighing, then decides ‘Fuck it’, because having an important conversation that she already knows will get them nowhere, inside a dirty, cramped motel bathroom, might just as well be a metaphor for their whole relationship. She opens her mouth. “To be fair, sir, Jacobi wasn’t _wrong_.” 

“Doctor Maxwell …” There’s an implicit warning in his voice, but she continues nonetheless. 

Maxwell opens her eyes and looks at him. “What you did was not okay. This was your fault. You _lied_ to us, and we almost died, and we–” 

“I never lied to you.” 

Jacobi snorts, earns a scowl in return and falls silent again immediately. 

“You did! You never once said a word about the building being monitored, you never once said a word about a goddamn security detail!” 

“I _didn’t know_ –” 

Maxwell raises her voice and doesn’t know why exactly; whether it’s to drown out Kepler’s sharp words or her own deafeningly loud heartbeat in her ears, “You never once said a word about that we’d be required to get to the top floor and retrieve physical data!” 

“Don’t interrupt me.” His voice is still even, still quiet, but he has that thing going on where the words seem piercing and threatening anyway, and it makes her feel very small, and she regrets having sat down on the floor, and she hates it, and she hates him, just a tiny bit, him and his impenetrability, his mind full of plans, contextless to her and Jacobi, and she doesn’t remember how often she’s heard the goddamn words ‘need to know’ since she’s started working with him. 

“I haven’t _lied_ to you. I have. Always. Been honest with you. I _am_. Always. Honest with you. And if I choose to not tell you _everything_ , you won’t question my reasons for it, and you won’t make a fuss about it, and you won’t be so overdramatic and call it _lying_. There was no need for you to know about the top floor – there _wouldn’t have been_ had the two of you just followed your _very simple_ orders. You were supposed to _stay put_. You disobeyed, and you followed me, and you endangered the completion of the mission. You have. Only. Yourself. To blame.” 

“We followed you to warn you!” 

“ _I_ ,” Kepler says pointedly, a little louder now, “can take care of myself.” 

It’s a confusing statement, Maxwell thinks, because it hurts. It makes something deep inside of her ache, and she doesn’t know why, she just knows that it feels as if he’s broken some sort of unspoken rule by making that statement – and making it sound almost accusing. She doesn’t know what to say in return. 

“One of these days,” Jacobi says (all defiance gone, just sounding tired now and a little bit resigned), “your fucking secrecy will kill one of us.” 

Yes, Maxwell thinks, yes, and with her luck, it’ll probably be Jacobi, and then she’ll be stuck with Intangible Kepler, Unregistered Trade Mark Symbol, all alone. Won’t that be fun. 

“ _Nonsense._ Do you even listen to yourself? Now stop pitying yourself and _get yourself together_. Both of you. Get up and get some _sleep_.” 

They both get up obediently, simultaneously as if rehearsed, and they follow him back into their room, and they all lie down on the double bed. Jacobi’s out after just a few minutes; Maxwell can hear it in the way he’s breathing. It seems almost comical, tragically so, how they just follow this set routine even after everything that happened tonight, even after the discussion from just minutes before. 

“There’s things you can’t command, Major,” she whispers into the darkness after a while,“You can’t order us to just _trust_ you,” and the words hang inside the room unanswered for a few seconds, and she’s almost sure he’s already asleep as well, and– 

“Yes I can.” 

Maxwell closes her eyes. She turns around, turns her back towards Kepler and grips the blanket tightly. 

Yes he can. 


	3. Pryce, post-finale, with Jacobi and Kepler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another anon prompt - "something with Pryce" because the finale gave them emotions about Pryce, and honestly, same. Post-finale, and Kepler is alive, because I'll do whatever I want.

Jacobi rummages through the glovebox of the stolen car. He finds a pair of Ray-ban sunglasses, three dollar and fifty-two cents, a dog leash in very bright pink, a bottle of expired Aspirin, two glowsticks and a pen. He keeps the glowsticks and the pen, shoves everything else back inside and leans back in the passenger seat, sighing. He tries the radio again. Again, it doesn’t turn on. 

So. Silence it is. 

He clears his throat, shifts on his seat and casts a quick glance to the back seat. Pryce is silently staring out the window. 

Jacobi sighs again and starts absentmindedly clicking the pen. Kepler clears his throat after a few seconds, and Jacobi remembers that he fucking hates this habit. He keeps doing it, this time on purpose. 

_Click-click._

“Can I– ask a question?” Pryce sounds almost shy. Awfully polite. Weird. 

“Shoot,” Jacobi says. _Click-click._

“Where … exactly are we going now?” 

Jacobi shrugs. “Kepler’s got a nice apartment.” 

Kepler’s also very quiet. It’s nice to not have him rambling or telling one of his stupid stories for a change, Jacobi thinks. But then again, what’s he supposed to do? Order him around? They’ve both pretty much been fired. 

“Ah. And you’re– You’re sure you want me to come along and–” 

“Yup,” Jacobi says. 

“… Why?” 

_Because you’re one of the bad guys too,_ he almost says _._ He doesn’t. Instead: “Because I really don’t wanna be alone with Colonel Asshat over there.” 

“… Ah.” 

“Yeah.”  


Kepler once again says nothing. Doesn’t react at all. Jacobi frowns a little. _Click-click. Click. Click. Click-click-click._

_Cli-_

“Soooo.” Kepler shoots him an annoyed look, but keeps his voice neutral. “I can’t imagine you enjoy driving in silence for hours. What about a game?” 

_Click._

“Fuck you.” Jacobi smiles at him. 

_Click._

“Fine.” _Now_ he’s sounding annoyed. That’s nice too, Jacobi thinks. 

“What game did you have in mind?” 

Jacobi blinks and prays to whoever’s listening that this drive won’t end with Kepler and Pryce playing Fortunately, Unfortunately, because he’s pretty sure he can’t imagine anything more awkward or annoying. 

Kepler doesn’t answer for a good ten seconds, and when he does, he sounds almost cautious. “You’d be interested, si–” He cuts himself off, needs a second, catches himself. “–Doctor Pryce?” 

“Depends on the game, I suppose.”  


“… What about Questions Only?” 

Suddenly, Jacobi _can_ imagine something more awkward and annoying. “Let’s not,” he says, but Kepler’s already explaining the rules to her. “God. I hate you,” he breathes. 

“I noticed,” Kepler answers dryly. “What do you think, Doctor Pryce?” 

“I– Sure. Why not. Who’s starting?” 

“Wouldn’t you say you’ve started already just now?” 

“I … suppose one could say that, huh?” 

Jacobi suddenly regrets his stupid big mouth, regrets saying _Hey, y’know what? I’ll adopt Pryce_ , regrets rejecting Lovelace’s offer to _fuck Goddard up, I don’t care about their world-famous lawyers; I never planned to take them down legally, anyway_. 

He looks down at his hands. _Click-click_. 

“Any topic in particular you’d like to discuss?” Kepler uses his stupid Questions Only voice, and Jacobi leans his head against the window, desperately wishing he could turn back time and choose differently. Pryce is smart. This will take a while. 

“Actually, I’d like to ask something, if that’s alright?” 

_Click-click._

“Why shouldn’t it be?” 

Pryce takes a deep breath. “I’m aware that my past actions are still things that _I’ve_ done, but do you think I’m – right now – still automatically a bad person, an _evil_ person, even though all my past memories, thoughts and plans are gone?” 

Silence.

Jesus Christ. Jacobi looks back at her. She seems calm, composed, not at all like Eiffel who almost started crying when Minkowski had told him that he’s still her friend, no matter– 

Silence. 

Silence.

Silence.

“… Actually, never mind. Let’s drive quietly,” Kepler murmurs. 

“Oh. Alright. I’m sorry.” 

After a few seconds, Jacobi laughs. “Hey,” he says, “Hey! Congratulations, Pryce. You won.” He looks at her again, and she meets his eyes, smile slowly spreading on her face. 

“Oh. I did, didn’t I?”

Jacobi, still grinning, looks out the windshield again. Nah, he decides. This _was_ a good choice.


	4. Kepler & Jacobi - "I thought about shooting you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [my own post](https://shortwaveattentionspan.tumblr.com/post/169708138225/after-the-events-of-time-to-kill-i-sometimes) on tumblr.
> 
> content notes: death mention; violence mention

“I thought about shooting you,” you say.

It’s been hours since they’ve locked you both in here and Jacobi hasn’t said a word, just glared at you for a few seconds every now and then. When he’s not glaring and not looking out at the star, he’s trying to hide that he’s staring at your- at the space where your hand used to be. You wonder whether the sound of your screams is stuck in his head like it’s in yours.

So.

“I thought about shooting you,” you say. Mostly, you think, to provoke some kind of reaction out of him. You get one - a very passive one. He braces his hands against one of the walls, steadies himself, stops floating aimlessly, but he still doesn’t say a word.

“Entertained the thought for a while, you see, thought it through, considered the options, and-”

“Why don’t you make that one short for real?” he spits, without turning his head, without looking at you, and you falter for just a second. Jacobi doesn’t talk to you like that. Never.

Your voice is steady when you speak again; it’s reassuring. “Thought it’d be a good way to find out whether you’re an alien clone or not, no? Because you sure as hell don’t know.”

He scoffs and finally turns around, looks at you. There’s something in his eyes that- no, it doesn’t scare you, you don’t get scared, but it puts you off. It’s not something you’ve ever seen. Not from him. You can’t name it. Or don’t want to.

“I’d know by now, huh? After your awesome _contact event_.”

“You sure?” You smile at him, that superior half-smirk he always said he hated and you know he always loved, in a way. “Who’s to say that Eiffel’s _Dear Listeners_ didn’t just prefer to speak through Lovelace and decided to ignore you?” 

He clenches his fists, but in the few short moments before he does, you see that his hands are shaking, and the next words leave your mouth not entirely against your will, but you don’t exactly _mean_ to say them, either. You don’t think they’re even genuine, but- but you’re not sure. “Maybe they wanted someone - _something_ \- they were sure could take it. Long … story short? Someone - _something_ \- mentally stable.”

He stares at you, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. He looks at you as if you broke a very important rule or altered the game entirely without advising him of it first. Maybe you did.

“Fuck you, Kepler,” he whispers. “You know what? I wish you had.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he’s referring to your thinking about shooting him.

“I wish you fucking had. One twitch of the finger, bullet to the head, yeah? So _easy_ , isn’t it? Then we’d know. And you know what else? I wish you had and that I hadn’t come back. Not because I-” He cuts himself off, laughs, as if he just thought of something funny; it sounds so genuine and you want to tell him to stop it, to shut up. “Not,” he repeats and continues, “because I especially wanna die - but I really, _really_ wish you’d have to live with that now. With the fact that you killed _both_ of your _pet agents_.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You doubt he expected an answer.

You’re glad when he turns around to focus his attention on the star again.


	5. Kepler/Cutter - nsfw snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon sent me "I'd probably die for your Cutler content" on tumblr, and honestly, what was I supposed to do? My answer to compliments is writing more for whatever I received a compliment for. 
> 
> This one's nsfw.

His hands are on his back, bound together with his tie, and for a split second, Kepler worries, because it will _surely_ be wrinkled once he’s allowed to wear it again, but the thought is gone almost too fast for him to really grasp it. The hands in his hair and on his dick respectively make it hard to think, evidentially, because he gasps out, “Sir– Mr. Fletch–” 

_Fuck._

Cutter – Cutter, not Fletcher, not anymore, God damn it – hums behind him and takes his hands off him. “What was that?”

Kepler shakes his head. “I–”

“What did you call me?” His voice is light, amused, almost, but Kepler knows him, or, not him, but … _him_. He’s not amused. Not about slip-ups concerning … _this_. Never about this.

“Cutter, sir, Mr. Cutter …”

“Mmm, no. That’s not what you said,” Cutter says casually, sliding one hand up his back and then pushing down until Kepler’s chest is pressed against the desk. He smells wood polish and closes his eyes. 

“I’m– sorry, sir,” he manages. 

“Warren, Warren, Warren,” Cutter murmurs (and, _oh_ , Kepler likes his new voice, he really does, it’s pleasant and smooth and dangerously kind in a twisted way), “That was unfortunate. And, how embarrassing, don’t you think? You better pay attention to this – not that it’s any of my business what you did with my predecessor, of course, but I’m sure you don’t want this to happen in front of anyone else, hm?” 

Kepler just so manages to keep himself from rolling his eyes, because it’s so unbelievably _ridiculous_ , and–

Cutter twists one hand in his hair again and pulls. Kepler gasps and tenses, and the tie digs into his wrists as he quickly says, “N-No, sir. Mr. Cutter, sir.”

“Good boy,” Cutter breathes and rakes the nails of his other hand down his back before wrapping his fingers around his dick again, firmly; almost painfully so. Kepler bites down on his lip to keep himself from making a sound, but his hips twitch, and Cutter laughs quietly. 

“Don’t worry, Warren,” he murmurs and slowly starts moving his hand, “I’ll make sure that you’ll remember. You won’t forget my name anymore once you’ll step out of my office.” 

It sounds like a threat as well as a promise, and Kepler swallows and says, voice tight, “Thank you, sir.”


	6. Hera & Pryce - post-finale conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked whether I had written Hera and Pryce interacting. I had not, so I fixed that. Post-finale, on their way back to Earth.

“Hera,” Miranda says, turning to one of the cameras. 

Hera … startles, as far as she can – it’s very late, according to the clocks that don’t actually mean anything (not yet, although they’re close now, close to Earth, close to home). She thought everyone was asleep. “Yes, Doctor Pryce?”

“I’m…” She trails off and stares at one of the walls, the look in her eyes almost vacant. Hera doesn’t push her, just leaves her to her thoughts. 

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually, almost inaudibly. “I don’t know why I did what I did– to you, I mean, but no matter the reason, it was unwarranted and cruel. You deserved better.” 

Hera doesn’t know how to react for a moment. Seconds pass, and she tries to think of something to say, and part of her grows nervous, because she’s supposed to respond immediately– 

But the apology came so unexpected! Hera had talked a lot; had told her everything about herself, everything she’d learned, and Miranda had listened, but she had done so quietly, had thanked her politely and hadn’t said much else ever since. The others don’t really talk to her, either, are wary, understandably so. Hera herself is, too, but this, now, sounded so … sincere.

“Thank you. It’s– alright,” she says eventually, the hesitancy entirely her own, not artificial; not a delay in processing or subconscious glitching. “It doesn’t matter anymore, now.” 

“I suppose,” Miranda murmurs. “I’m still sorry. I could… Once we’re back on Earth, if you’d allow me to take a look at your code – I could take it out. The– the thing. I said.” 

Hera answers without thinking about it – “No. I don’t want that.” – and her voice coming from the speaker is, perhaps, a little too forceful, because Miranda bites her lip and almost flinches. Hera’s grown really good at reading body language. 

“It’s your choice, of course,” Miranda says. “But I promise I wouldn’t touch your code otherwise. I–” 

“That’s not it. I believe you. But this… _belongs_ to me. It’s part of me. Of who I am. And I’m dealing with it. A friend helped me figure out _how_ to deal with it. I don’t want to change anything about myself – and that’s nice.” 

“Oh,” she says, and then nothing for a long while, before she adds, “Yes. That’s … really nice. I’m happy for you.” 

Hera doesn’t doubt she means it, but she sounds a little … sad, as well. It takes her a moment to figure out what could have prompted this particular emotional response, and when she does, she feels a little bad, because ‘It’s part of me - of who I am’ – well.

Well.

Miranda holds on to the hand rail in front of her, hands clamped around it so hard that her knuckles are white.

There’s much Hera could say – some things she’d like to say – I don’t know whether I’ve forgiven you, but I don’t know whether you’re the person I need to forgive now; If you want, you can be a good person, now; If you’d ask, maybe the others would let you stay with them once we’ve arrived; You can be better just like we all got better; but–

But she doesn’t know how, and part of her is still afraid she might start glitching again if she tried to get something out that makes her nervous, so she’s quiet instead. At least, she thinks, Miranda is not alone – now that she sees AIs as actual company; now that she sees Hera as more of a person than herself.


	7. Rachel/Maxwell - "Cross my heart and hope to die."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kalgalen gave me the prompt "Cross my heart and hope to die" when we both wanted to write Femslash. I chose to write something for Rachel/Maxwell, and now I'm too invested. Oops.

This is not her bedroom. It’s the first thing Maxwell realizes when she opens her eyes in the morning.

This room is tidy and clean and smells nice, and there’s no spare screens standing around in the corners, no chair full of clothes that might be clean or dirty– 

Maxwell needs a few seconds to remember where she is, and why she’s here, and for a few seconds, she almost panics. She doesn’t like sleeping, period. She hates that it’s something she has to do in order to function, she hates that it’s something that takes away so much _time_. But this – waking up in a room that isn’t hers – is even worse, it’s the worst thing she can imagine, and–

Rachel shifts and turns on her side. She blinks at her, and Maxwell quickly closes her eyes. Clearly not quick enough, though, because Rachel doesn’t fall for it; doesn’t believe for a second that she’s still asleep.

“Good morning,” she says, voice a little hoarse from sleep, and it’s, Maxwell thinks, unfair how nice it sounds, how it makes something inside her clench almost painfully.

“... Morning,” she mumbles and swallows, unsure how to behave, what to do. When she’d gone home with Rachel the evening before, she hadn’t planned to stay the night, she really hadn’t. And when she’d crawled into bed next to her, she hadn’t planned to sleep at all, or certainly not as long as she obviously did. She’d planned to leave before Rachel would wake up, and sure, it would have been rude, but it would have been less uncomfortable than _this_.

“God, _relax_.” Rachel reaches out to brush Maxwell’s hair out of her face, and Maxwell stays very, very still. 

This is– weird. This is not just making out in the hallway, or an empty conference room, and Maxwell isn’t really sure how she even ended up here. She was a little drunk, which, to her defense, was mostly Kepler’s fault–

“I should go,” Maxwell says, and Rachel snorts.

“I did plan to make you breakfast, but sure, if you want to.”

She does, she really wants to, and the only reason why she doesn’t is that she’s almost sure that she’s naked. She has no idea how to deal with this situation; she most of the time doesn’t even know how to behave in completely normal surroundings, but for those, she has scripts, she knows when to look at someone, when to smile or laugh, how to stand, when it’s rude or inappropriate to cross her arms. This, however is so _different_ and so outside of her expertise–

_Jacobi would know what to do_ , she thinks, _he does things like that all the time._

_I probably shouldn’t think about my best friend while lying in the bed of the woman I had sex with_ , she thinks, _that’s probably a strange thing to do._

“Uh,” Maxwell says. “Can– Can you, uh. Leave the room while I get dressed?”

“You’re throwing me out my own bedroom?” Rachel asks, one eyebrow raised.

Maxwell slowly nods.

Rachel sits up, and Maxwell wants to look away, because she’s naked, too, it turns out, but ends up staring instead. Rachel smiles, knowingly, triumphantly, almost. Maxwell feels very small.

“I’ll be in the kitchen with breakfast, if you want. Or, you leave. The front door will be unlocked.”

Maxwell nods slowly and watches how Rachel gets up and walks over to the door without bothering to dress. 

“Rachel,” she says. “Can we– Please don’t– tell anyone?”

“Hah,” Rachel makes and turns her head to look at her. “That’s funny. Usually, people don’t feel like they have to be embarrassed for–”

“That’s not it! Just, if you tell someone, Colonel Kepler will find out, and–”

“He’s the one person I’d _love_ to tell, Dr. Maxwell.”

Maxwell frowns at the impersonal form of address but quickly decides to ignore it in favor of ensuring that she won’t just walk _into_ the building, but be allowed to leave it again alive, as well.

“Listen, if he finds out, he’ll be angry, and–”

“That’s the number one reason for telling him!” Rachel says cheerfully. Maxwell shakes her head.

“No, listen, he’ll call it treason and I won’t be sure whether it’s only ironical, and–”

“Wait, what, seriously?”

“–and then I’ll feel bad all day and I’ll never make out with you again, and…” She trails off. “No, that was a lie. But, anyway–”

“Alright, alright, I won’t tell anyone. Now _relax_ , will you?”

“Really? Do…” Maxwell feels silly even while the words are still inside her head, but she says them anyway. “Do you promise?”

Rachel sighs and turns to face away from her again. “Yes, yes,” she says. It sounds bored, but genuine, Maxwell thinks. “Cross my heart and hope to die and all that.”

Maxwell waits until the sound of her naked feet on the hardwood floor are out of earshot before she sits up and checks the room for her clothes. They’re strewn around the floor, she realizes, and thinks that she’ll have to do this again, because it’s a shame – and still Kepler’s fault – that she can’t really remember what last night was like.

And, she supposes, she can stay for breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> My podcast sideblog is @shortwaveattentionspan, and I'm [always taking prompts](http://shortwaveattentionspan.tumblr.com/inbox)! Just keep in mind that it'll take me between one (1) and eighty-two (82) business days to actually Write Stuff.


End file.
